Awake, My Soul
by Ru-chama
Summary: Sherlock 'came back to life' three months ago, moving back in with John like nothing ever happened - except for the fact that they haven't spoken or looked at each other since. Can they work it out, or is everything going to fall apart?


**I wrote this in about three hours. It's based off of an anonymous ask on my tumblr (honeyyoushouldseemeinacrown if you're curious :])**

_Anonymous asked:_

_Write a fic about Sherlock coming back- but he's addicted again and he is in constant pain from the injuries he sustained (mysteriously) in the years/months that he was away... please?_

**The lyrics are Mumford & Sons' "Awake My Soul."**

"Please, John." Step, step, step, step. Pause. Turn. Don't wince.

"Sod off, would you?" Four more steps, in the opposite direction this time. Pause. Turn. Don't wince.

"John. _John_. I _need_ it!" Step, step, step – why was there so little room to _move_? How was he supposed to… To _anything_ like this? – step, pause. Turn. _Don't wince_.

"No you bloody well don't." The tone was fierce, final. Strong enough that it made Sherlock turn his head to look at his friend. He was sitting in his usual chair, newspaper in hand, not even looking up as Sherlock had one of his usual energetic fits. It would have been normal, except…

Sherlock's eyes narrowed, reading all the little signs in John's posture – the way his left hand was balled up on the arm of the chair, the tensed calf muscles of his crossed legs, the way the legs were crossed _away_ from Sherlock, indicating that he had no desire to interact. The crease between his brows, only growing deeper as time wore on. The scowl on his face. The way that although he was staring at the paper intently, his eyes had not moved.

He was upset. This deduction stopped Sherlock in his tracks. He turned, forgetting to be careful, and winced only slightly as the joints and muscles in his left leg protested. This was… All wrong. John. Why was he upset? It… puzzled him, to say the least. Sherlock didn't know what to do with this John. Frustrated-John, Confused-John, Loyal-John, Happy-John, Angry-John, those sides of John he knew how to handle.

He didn't know how to handle a man who had no life left in him. Who wouldn't talk to him except to make sure he was clean. Who hadn't smiled in a long, long time (longer than three months, six days, eleven hours, and sixteen minutes; exactly how long it had been since Sherlock revealed he wasn't, in fact, dead). Sherlock kept his eyes on his friend but resumed his pacing - a more careful and controlled pace this time, slipping into his familiar thinking stride.

John sighed, tossing the paper aside carelessly. He looked up at the tall man before him – avoiding the eyes, of course - watching as he tried to hide his limp, hide the fact that his arms were stiff and sore, hide the fact that he had near-constant headaches. It was almost, _almost_ enough to make John pity him. The past three years couldn't have been easy for him. But no, they weren't exactly a vacation for John, either, so he remained impassive, not letting himself feel anything.

"Arm, Sherlock," he finally said, leaning forward in the chair. His voice was flat, lifeless.

Sherlock turned again, his breath catching as the movement sent a jolt of pain through his hips and up his spine. _Don't react. Don't react._ He twitched his brow downward, a sign of confusion. "I'm clean."

"I can't trust that. Arm. Now." To emphasize his point John held out his hand expectantly, tilting his head and raising his brows. His expression was dull; there would be no arguing with him.

_How fickle my heart and how woozy my eyes_

_I struggle to find any truth in your lies_

Sherlock sighed and walked over to the chair, reminding himself not to wince with every other step he took. He rolled the left-hand side sleeve of his shirt up above the elbow without looking; his eyes were focused on John and John alone.

The doctor's eyes were pointedly focused on the pale gangly arm in front of him, feeling Sherlock's gaze on his forehead as keenly as a burn. He wouldn't give in. Push all that aside, this was just a patient, and he was just a doctor. Nothing personal about it.

Except it was very personal. If he had truly been just a doctor, he would have been more sympathetic toward Sherlock. Of course he would have, the man was clearly in pain. It would have been his job to comfort the patient. So he wasn't being a doctor either, then. He was being petty. And he knew it. It was irrelevant, though. He wouldn't allow himself to feel anything.

Sherlock leaned forward, putting his arm next to John's face, precisely where John himself would have put it in order to look for the tracks on his pale limb – checking the scarred bumps for inflammation, redness, bruising, anything at all that would indicate recent usage. Sherlock watched impassively as John took his arm with both of his hands, tan on white, turning it slightly to get a closer look.

"You used again." The voice was cold, distant.

Sherlock said nothing. There was nothing to be said.

"Again! _Again_, Sherlock! You fucking used again!" And suddenly, all the emotions – the fear, guilt, anger, crippling despair, concern, frustration, confusion, embarrassment, disbelief, hope, _everything_, everything he had been holding in not just for the past few months but for _years_ – spilled out of him all at once. He was simultaneously laughing while dry-sobbing, screaming indignantly even as he let out a sigh of relief. Everything was whirling up and out of him. It was too much. He was feeling too much, had lived through too much, and his mind just couldn't handle it any longer.

_And now my heart stumbles on things I don't know_

_My weakness I feel I must finally show_

Sherlock's eyes widened, taken aback by John's reaction. He knew he wasn't _supposed_ to be using, yes, but he also knew that John hadn't even managed to _look _at him since he came back. He had deduced that this meant it didn't matter what he did – he had damaged them both, and John was clearly never going to forgive him for that.

It hadn't helped that there was _absolutely nothing to do_. He had to speak, had to let his energy out somehow – in the past he would have talked, knowing that John would listen when he could and would never know the difference if Sherlock talked aloud to an empty flat. But this John… Even Sherlock realised that he was emotionally unstable, and so kept quiet.

That quiet had driven him to madness, trapping him in his own mind. Boredom, boredom, boredom, _boredom, BOREDOM_, with no hope of release. The needle sliding into his skin, the coldness of the cocaine hydrochloride rushing into his skin, through his veins, the flooding sensation as it overtook him, elevating him to a higher state of being, that was the only way to escape the crippling ennui that enveloped him.

"I… I don't understand," he said in a small voice, almost _afraid_ to talk to John, especially in his current state – twitching his left hand again and again, making strange, strangled noises that were immediately followed by howls of laughter, then screams of rage, followed again by the strangled noises – were they _sobs_? The pattern repeated for a few minutes, gradually slowing down as John worked to get himself under some semblance of control.

"You don't _understand._" His voice was harsh, barking the words out with a cruel laugh. It sent a chill through Sherlock's spine: although he had _known_ John was in the army and knew just how dangerous he could be, it was entirely different to be the one John was directing it toward.

"Why are you upset?" Sherlock looked down at John as he spoke quietly, barely murmuring the words, trying hard not to provoke another reaction (though it seemed inevitable). He was surprised to find himself _hurt_ by John's tone – it was sharp, cold, uncaring. The tone of an enemy, of someone who wished him harm, _wished_ he would hurt.

_Lend me your hand and we'll conquer them all_

_But lend me your heart and I'll just let you fall_

John looked up suddenly, hearing the pain in Sherlock's voice. Their eyes met for the first time since his fall from the hospital roof. Both sets of eyes widened, taken aback as they each saw just how much pain the other had been holding in. They were both totally exposed, their emotions plain to read in their bodies, on their faces. They were statues, unable to do anything but look at the other. He was trapped by Sherlock's gaze, overwhelmed by those piercing, pain-filled transparent blue-green eyes. He felt a pang of guilt as he recounted the injuries Sherlock _still_ had, after three months – the leg, the hip, the arm, various scars – things that, if they hadn't vanished already, probably never would. Sherlock would have to live with these afflictions for the rest of his life. Why? Because he'd had to pretend to die in order to save John's life.

A low cry escaped his throat. Sherlock had fallen to protect _him_, to make sure he could continue living. He had given up everything to ensure John's safety, and here he was treating the other man like a stranger in his own home, refusing to even _look_ him in the eye because he knew what he would see there – all of the emotions he didn't want to feel, didn't want to work through. How could he have done that to his closest friend?

Sherlock's eyes tightened as he read the emotions flitter across John's face, heard his pained exclamation. _I did this,_ he thought. _I caused this pain. This pain he should never, never have to feel._ John had survived so much, lived through so, _so_ much – was it really that unreasonable that he would still be upset? Sherlock had not only disappeared, but apparently _died_ for three years – that wouldn't be easy to get over. For the first time, Sherlock thought about it - really, truly, thought about it instead of pretending to think about it and avoiding the subject. What would he have done in John's place? He inhaled sharply, his breath catching as wave after wave of despair and grief washed over this imagined outcome, this imagined life. John… John didn't need to imagine it, he'd _lived_ it. Sherlock's mouth dropped open, his eyes softening. What had he _done?_

_Lend me your eyes I can change what you see_

_But your soul you must keep totally free_

The strength of the revelation made Sherlock stagger backward, breaking the spell over them. Before he was fully aware of what he was doing, he was walking forward, all pain forgotten, and kneeling next to John still sitting in the chair.

_In these bodies we will live, in these bodies we will die_

_Where you invest your love you invest your life_

John's eyes widened, watching as Sherlock approached him quickly, wanting to cry out a warning – watch for your injuries, you git! – but the words wouldn't come. He was still frozen, unable to do anything but watch the other man, still overcome with the emotions he was feeling.

_In these bodies we will live, in these bodies we will die_

_Where you invest your love you invest your life_

John reached down even as Sherlock reached up, their hands meeting palm-to-palm, finger-to-finger. Sherlock's long digits curved inward at the highest knuckle, wrapping over John's shorter, stubbier fingers. They held their hands there for a moment, both of them still unable to tear his eyes away from the other's, both of them a little frightened and unsure of what was happening or what to do now. John looked at Sherlock's passive expression, seeing the panic hidden just behind the eyes. He was _afraid_ of John, of his reaction. Afraid of doing something wrong, something that would make John more upset. He wasn't going to move. So it was up to John, then.

_Awake, my soul, Awake, my soul_

_Awake, my soul_

The corner of John's mouth lifted slightly and his eyes softened, the beginnings of a smile crossing his face for the first time in years. He shifted his fingers slightly, sliding them between Sherlock's. They fit there perfectly, almost as if they were made to be there, interlaced between Sherlock's.

Sherlock watched, disbelieving, as John smiled.

Everything was going to be alright.

_You were made to meet your maker_

_Awake, my soul, Awake, my soul._


End file.
